I Knew You Once
by Intimate Diplomat
Summary: Strange familiarities in a series of books move Lain to uncover the inspiration behind its characters. What she finds instead is her own role in the story.


*I don't own anything you recognize, except Lain. I like that name. Is pretty.*

It was only with a friend's insistence (which was more like a constant whine) that I picked up the first Harry Potter book and turned to page one.

"I'm telling you. You will LOVE it!" she had said.

"It's so popular it can't possibly be anything new and original."

"Come on, Lain! Stop being a snob and just try it. I know it's not Kafka or Dostoevsky, but..."

I found, half-way through, everything I expected to find - good guy, bad guy, sad family background (so true to the typical, in fact: an orphan story), and a little magic thrown in. But I stuck with it for fear that my elitist cynicism would make me miss something enjoyable. By the middle of book two, I was hooked. Not sure why, but something about the story anchored me to the pages like a child reading a secret diary.

I was a senior in college, and by the time I reached book three I realized that I was enjoying them, despite my initial doubt. The huge fan base, even at my university, made me a bit more confident about reading the series. My friend and I even attended a Potter conference or two that fall. The costumes and role play were a bit much for me, but the literary criticism panels were fun. It was at one of these conferences that I learned the ending to the series, a highly expected and unoriginal outcome. No matter, I would continue to read til the end.

Winter break saw me sitting on my bed for days speed-reading book six like a mad man. There was something about the story - about the bad guy - that peaked my interest. He was, unsurprisingly, the most interesting character in the series. One night, I laid in bed thinking of Voldemort, of Tom Riddle, and of Albus Dumbledore. I couldn't decide a favorite, and I fell asleep to mental musings of the three.

My dreams were fuzzy. I thought at first I was in a business office with an old fashioned decor. Through my clouded vision I saw art deco lighting fixtures and large ceiling fans. I heard a voice - muffled at first, then clearer. I could not see the source.

"Lain? Lain!" it called. I tried to answer, but I felt as if my body were being pulled in all directions, like I wasn't completely there. The scene shifted. I was in what looked like a junk store, maneuvering my way through the narrow passageways between the shelves. Was I looking for someone?

I awoke with a start, my sheets soaked with sweat. It didn't seem like a very interesting dream, particularly one that should cause me to sweat. But the visions clung to me like mental photographs. I could not shake myself from a painfully strong feeling that it was all familiar - that it was a memory, not a dream.

I went downstairs to grab some food, stepping out into the cold Pennsylvania snow to clear my mind. I decided at that moment that I would put The Half-Blood Prince down for a few days and watch some trusty, mind-numbing television. I went out to dinner with Julia, the friend who had introduced me to the Potter world, at the risk of talking about the series (nonstop, per her usual regimen). She was not interested in Potter talk, thankfully, and instead bragged about her new boyfriend.

"He's wonderful, Lain! He's handsome and smart and best of all - he's president of the student government!"

"_You're_ going out with Jim Hernandez? That's awesome!"

"What do you mean '_you're_?' Do you not think I can get someone like Jim?"

"That's not what I meant, Julia."

"And anyway, he's not like you think. He may be a frat boy, but..."

Admittedly I stopped listening after that. She droned on about Jim and his frat buddies while I stared sickly at my food. As Jim's endless list of good qualities floated through my head like a vague buzzing sound, I noticed a strange tint to my lettuce. Staring at it closely, I wondered if it had gone bad in the two hours we were sitting at the restaurant. Then I looked up and saw a line of art deco lights surrounding the dining room. Memories of the dream hit me suddenly, and I felt odd, almost sick. Again I could hear that strange, muffled voice calling me..

"Lain? Lain!"

Julia's call startled me to my senses.

"What?" I asked.

"You were staring off into space. Was my talking too boring for you?"

"No, Julia, I'm sorry. I just.. I had a dream last night."

"Oh! Do tell!"

"Well it's kind of weird.. It's like one of those dreams that really bother you the whole day after. One that's either too real or too weird. I'm not sure which it was."

"Write!" she said.

"Um... what?"

"I said write! I find when I have a dream like that it helps to write down what happened, maybe even turn it into a story. Or a fanfiction, in my case." She smiled.

"What's a fanfiction?" I asked. I really, really shouldn't have asked.

"It's a story you write, about books or tv shows, using the same characters and stuff. A lot of people make romantic pairings, some put themselves in the story, others expand on an underdeveloped character. You can guess what books I write about."

"Um, but what's the point?" I didn't understand why people couldn't just write original stories. After all, wouldn't the writer be less confined in his own story than in one with pre-packaged characters and settings?

"In my opinion it's a way to have more fun with your favorite stories, to give the characters more life."

"I guess... So when you dream about Harry Potter you write a fanfiction about it?"

"Yep," she said, taking a drink of her soda. "I think I'm gonna get going. See you at the New Years party?"

"Yeah, I'll be there."

That night I decided not to write anything, despite Julia's suggestion. I was feeling so put-off by the dream that I picked up book six and once again started to read. As I learned more and more about Tom Riddle's life, a new feeling came over me - not one of deep interest, as before, but one of uneasiness. It was as if the story I was reading was somehow... off. I was feeling sick again. I couldn't understand why this book was giving me the same feeling as the dream I had. I certainly did not dream about Harry Potter, unless the walls of Hogwarts were decorated like an office in the 1950s.

I finished the chapter and went to sleep. My night was, thankfully, dreamless, and by next morning I could barely remember the office or the junk store. I was feeling much better, and flit about the house in my Christmas tree outfit and Hanukkah hat, decorating rooms with horrifically obnoxious tinsel and moving reindeer fixtures. By the end of the day I had Half Blood Prince finished, and vowed not to start on Deathly Hallows until after the holidays. Instead I picked up an old, battered copy of a Kafka I had yet to read and laid on the couch, listening to Christmas hymns on the radio. My mother had brought back a bottle of wine from her Christmas party at work, and it laid at my side, a perfect addition to my book.

I must have fallen asleep, because it was dark when I awoke, the lights on the Christmas tree dancing. I could see them moving through my eyelids. I tried in vain to fall back asleep, but it was too warm. In fact, I was sweating. Sitting up, I opened my eyes to find the tree on fire. I screamed and bolted from the room. In the time it took get my mother and the fire extinguisher, the fire had reached the other side of the room and the couch where I had been sitting. My mother activated the extinguisher and headed for the flames. Just then I noticed the bottle of wine had spilled all over the floor, reaching through the carpet to the flames. It was too late. The fire exploded like an angry monster, engulfing my mother completely. I panicked as her screams ripped at my ears.

Then, without thinking, without even knowing what I was doing, I reached for her. My hand found its own way to her arm and pulled her out of the flames. Before I even knew, I was running my hands over her body. The flames disappeared upon my touch. The burns on her face and arms, even the charred remnants of her shirt were somehow repairing themselves before my eyes. By the time I realized what was happening - what _I_ was somehow doing - I yanked my hands away and stood back. There was my mother on the floor, out cold but otherwise perfectly fine. How could it be? No time to think. I called 911 and lifted my mother out of the house onto the cold snow. I ran back in for Dog, our cat, and pulled him to safety too.

Hours after the fire I was still outside, sitting on the back of a fire truck, a blanket wrapped around my shoulders and Dog in my arms. Mother was taken to the hospital, though I knew she was fine. I stared mindlessly at my hands. How did I do it? It was as if something had entered my body and did the work through me. I thought with amusement that it was magic. Too much Harry Potter, I thought.


End file.
